Ode to the Jones
by Jilly-chan
Summary: Wedded bliss wasn't everything they were expecting, now Quatre and Dorothy are out to kill each other. But some things are worth sorting through. 1xH here also. *snicker* that's one of my favorite alt. couples btw


Wedded bliss wasn't everything they were expecting, now Quatre and Dorothy are out to kill   
  
each other. What can divert their vengeance?  
  
  
Ode to the Jones   
  
by Jillian Storm   
  
  
  
(Disclaimer: Nothing new here. I heard a new Catatonia song and . . . well, it was rather   
  
obviously about Dorothy and Quatre. I couldn't let it alone. I hope you find the concept as   
  
amusing as I did. Additional lyrics provided by The Callings, "Wherever you go." I did alter the   
  
lyrics a little tiny bit.)   
  
  
  
"We've gathered here today . . ." Quatre mumbled to himself, twisting his bow tie more to the   
  
left. Scowling at the mirror, and readjusting it back to the right. "Trowa!" He never stopped   
  
looking at the mirror, narrowing his eyes with frustration.   
  
  
  
"What's the matter now?" Trowa pushed Quatre's shoulders so that he could get a better grip on   
  
the troublesome tie.   
  
  
  
"I can't believe that I agreed to this." the blond man grumbled, taking a comb out of his front   
  
jacket pocket and started to brush through his hair--bunching up his jacket as he lifted his arms   
  
and causing the tie to slip out of Trowa's fingers.   
  
  
  
"Calm down." Trowa chuckled softly. "No one's going to be looking at you."   
  
  
  
"Yeah," Quatre's voice didn't lose any of his previous concern. "They'll all be ogling *my* vixen."   
  
  
  
"Good grief, you don't call Dorothy that to her face, do you?" Trowa added the last part with a bit   
  
of earnest concern.   
  
  
  
"Nah," the sheepish grin gave Quatre away, "I'm . . . just wondering if I'm getting into more than   
  
I can handle."   
  
  
  
"Right," Trowa nodded sharply, "Marrying Dorothy Catalonia is *not* something I envy you."   
  
  
  
"Cut that out." Quatre flushed, lowering his eyes. He hated to admit it but he had quite frankly   
  
been very surprised when Dorothy had agreed to see him again after the war. She had changed   
  
so much in three years. He had been incurably curious about whatever had happened to the   
  
tragic girl, and that curiosity had gotten the better of him. He had hardly recognized her when   
  
she had stepped off the shuttle--large dark glasses, shorter blond hair tied up in a dark scarf, a   
  
dark skirt and suit--she had been the picture of a young widow, a feisty one. Something about   
  
her aloof self-sufficiency had attracted him to her. After helping so many people who had been   
  
needy after the war, it had startled him how refreshing her independence was to him.   
  
  
  
Their friendship had not been an easy one, but the sparks of one strong spirit onto another had   
  
kindled a fierce passion between them. Dorothy became incredibly protective of the young   
  
aristocrat and Quatre appreciated her carefree ability to disagree with his prestigious position in   
  
society. Even as she would question his every decision, she was his strongest supporter.   
  
  
  
"For better or for worse . . . " Quatre stuck the comb back in his pocket. Which Trowa observed   
  
and disapproved with a shake of his head, holding out his hand. Quatre relinquished the comb   
  
and began re-adjusting his tie.   
  
  
  
Four years later.   
  
  
  
"Darling," Dorothy clipped the term of endearment with a snarl, "I *like* to drive. Besides, it isn't   
  
like you don't get chauffeured from one diplomatic meeting to another as it is already." She was   
  
sitting at a red light and when it turned green she squealed the tires against the asphalt, quite   
  
pleased at how ferociously that noise echoed her own feelings.   
  
  
  
"Fine, fine." Quatre leaned away from her and stared out the passenger side window, resting his   
  
forehead against his propped up arm. Wondering how his marriage had fallen apart so quickly.   
  
Granted, no one knew. Dorothy was the perfect wife for political parties and other social rallies.   
  
She daintily wrapped herself around Quatre's arm, generated small talk with whomever about   
  
whatever, and was positively involved with the community to such an extent that it reinforced   
  
Quatre's already good name.   
  
  
  
He had only hinted at the problems they were having in private with his closest friends, and then   
  
only in passing. When Duo had visited six months ago, "Quatre, man! It's been too long since   
  
I've seen you! How've you been? What's new? Do you mind if I crash here for a week until I can   
  
get my back rent paid and renew my lease? Are you and Dorothy expecting any kids yet?"   
  
Followed by a sharp elbow to Quatre's ribs.   
  
  
  
"Sure sure. You can stay." Quatre had sighed affectionately.   
  
  
  
"Wait," Duo had said with a sparkle in his eyes, "You didn't answer my question . . . dad?"   
  
  
  
"Well," Quatre was mentally scrambling, wondering if he should confide in someone and if that   
  
someone should be Duo, "I really don't think that the way things are going that Dorothy and I,   
  
we don't . . ."   
  
  
  
"Eh," Duo had waved his hand dismissively, "You kids have fun and keep trying. You can always   
  
ask science to help you out."   
  
  
  
Quatre had bristled a little, but he couldn't stay angry at Duo's insensitivity for long. The   
  
American was not the brightest or the first to pick up on anything subtle.   
  
  
  
"Crap." Dorothy honked the horn angrily and passed the car which had just cut her off from   
  
making their exit. "When's this concert anyway?"   
  
  
  
Quatre was beginning to make out his own reflection in the window as the sun was setting. "It's   
  
fine if we're a bit late. We have box seats reserved."   
  
  
  
"You mean it's not too late just to turn around and forget it?" Dorothy glanced over at her   
  
husband. She could perform the perfect little wife act on necessary occasions, but this was   
  
nothing more than an evening out. "I could have just stayed at home . . ."   
  
  
  
"Hey, my best friend's in this. It's a big deal." Quatre snapped back. Trowa had decided to pick   
  
up his flute playing again and had joined a traveling symphony orchestra. It was supposed to be   
  
a rather spectacular show that incorporated a few of the acrobat's circus performance skills as   
  
well.   
  
  
  
"Right! Very right." Dorothy gripped the steering wheel tighter and spun the car around at a   
  
dangerous speed in order to catch the exit from the opposite direction.   
  
  
  
"What in the world are you doing?" Quatre yelped, "Trying to get us killed?" Dorothy laughed in a   
  
sinister way that didn't reassure Quatre in the slightest.   
  
  
  
Quatre, "What did I do wrong?"   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "Oh you nearly drove me coo-coo."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "Am I really all that bad?"   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "You're worse that Hannibal Lector . . . Charlie Manson . . . Freddy Kruger . . . "   
  
  
  
Quatre, "Why are we still together?"   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "Oh, I can't leave you till your dead . . ."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "You mean till death do us part . . . ?"   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "I mean like cyanide, strangulation, or an ax to your head!"   
  
  
  
They sat in silence for a number of minutes, listening to the car noises, the angry purr of the   
  
engine. Quatre felt as if his heart was going to shrivel up like a raison. He had never intended to   
  
let things get so awful between himself and Dorothy, but there didn't seem to be any helping it.   
  
She *was* a vixen and he was irreversible stuck with her. They had taken those vows very   
  
seriously earlier in their marriage and had agreed to work through everything together . . . until   
  
death.   
  
  
  
"Why can't things be the way they used to . . . ?" Quatre offered weakly. If he had learned   
  
anything in four years, it was that Dorothy had a splendid temper to rival Wufei's. He   
  
remembered how Wufei had actually complimented that characteristic.   
  
  
  
"She's strong," Wufei had observed while he was visiting one autumn. He had been on a   
  
pilgrimage of sorts to various war memorials honoring those who had died during the Gundam   
  
battles. "That's a benefit to your choice in a wife."   
  
  
  
"Well," Quatre had felt a tad squeamish, "It *was* a choice, but mostly I was in love with her."   
  
  
  
Wufei had raised one of his eye brows and smiled, "That's always a benefit. Still, I can't quite   
  
understand how passionately people profess that simply *love* brings them together."   
  
  
  
"It was enough for us." Quatre retorted gently.   
  
  
  
"What's that?" Dorothy asked, a dangerous quietness to her voice. She decided to take the   
  
yellow light and floored the accelerator.   
  
  
  
"Love, once it was . . . anyway." Quatre gave up pathetically. "We're never going to get to this   
  
concert, are we? If we had only left earlier like I had . . ."   
  
  
  
"Excuse me?" Dorothy challenged, "You didn't tell me that I had to go until half an hour before   
  
you wanted to leave!"   
  
  
  
"I wonder if any of the local stations are broadcasting the music live? At least then I can hear the   
  
concert." Quatre snapped.   
  
  
  
"Go right ahead!"   
  
  
  
Quatre, "It was lucky for us I turned the radio on."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "They say that music soothes the savage beast."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "There was something in that voice that stopped the scene there."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "The two of us would have surely ended up dead."   
  
  
  
The radio host had paused broadcasting the orchestra to explain the scene to his audience.   
  
"You've been listening to Colony Four Concerts Live. Tonight the Terra Symphony Orchestra has   
  
been performing original music inspired by the life and careers of our military past called Return   
  
to Peace. Supporting the movement toward reconciliation, war veteran Trowa Barton has been   
  
accompanying the tour. Returning from the intermission, we begin this half with a vocal solo by   
  
none other than Mr. Barton himself . . ."   
  
  
  
"Trowa can sing?" Dorothy and Quatre said simultaneously and shared a surprised glance.   
  
  
  
"How far away are we?" Quatre asked urgently and very amused. "Oh I wish I could see this."   
  
  
  
"Shush," Dorothy scolded, "Or we won't even be able to hear it . . ."   
  
  
  
"I'm turning it up . . . we've missed the first part." Quatre frantically examined the radio controls   
  
wondering why it felt as if he had never seen them before.   
  
  
  
" . . . she may be wondering, who will be there to take my place? When I'm gone--   
  
you need love to light the shadows on your face . . ."   
  
  
  
Trowa's voice was soft and comforting. It was a simple ballad with a guitar softly accompanying   
  
Trowa's gentle baritone.   
  
  
  
"Who's he singing about? Cathy?" Dorothy asked, interrupting but respectful.   
  
  
  
" . . . could you make it on your own? . . . if I could, then I would follow wherever you would go-  
  
-way up high or down low--I'll go wherever you will go . . . "   
  
  
  
"We're here!" Quatre cried enthusiastically, opening his door long before Dorothy had slowed the   
  
car.   
  
  
  
"Wait." Dorothy chuckled, "You don't want to kill yourself now."   
  
  
  
Quatre ran around the car to open Dorothy's door so she would move more quickly. He offered   
  
his hand, pulled her up, and began dragging her toward the concert hall. "Quickly, quickly!"   
  
  
  
"I'm in heels, darling." Dorothy laughed at his excitement, "Don't forget!"   
  
  
  
(you stopped us from killing each other   
  
you'll never know it but you saved our lives)   
  
  
  
"We're here. We're finally here." Quatre whispered jubilantly as he pulled Dorothy the final steps   
  
to the door of their box seats. Dorothy couldn't keep a grin off her face. Breathless they closed   
  
the door behind them and began to fumble their way forward to the seats. Trowa had finished   
  
his song, unfortunately, and the orchestra was playing to some light show that caused the box to   
  
light up suddenly.   
  
  
  
To reveal a couple in a rather intimate position squeezed into one of the chairs.   
  
  
  
"Heero?" Quatre squeaked. Fortunately the music concealed his outburst from the general   
  
audience.   
  
  
  
"Hn, oh, Quatre. Didn't think you guys were going to make it." The former Gundam pilot smiled   
  
rather devilishly his teeth white against his shadowed face. His arms were still wrapped, but more   
  
loosely, around none other than . . . " . . . I do believe that you remember Hilde."   
  
  
  
"Uh, hi . . ." Hilde said with a girlish grin and no sign of embarrassment. Her dress was   
  
considerable rumpled as she sat in Heero's lap and she still had her fingers tangled in his dark,   
  
shaggy hair.   
  
  
  
"Good grief." Dorothy took the offensive and scolded them. "What in the world are you doing in   
  
*our* box seats--excuse me, I mean *seat*?"   
  
  
  
"Watching the show." Hilde continued to smile mischievously. "Or . . . we were, rather. It's a   
  
rather, um, inspiring performance."   
  
  
  
"You can say that again," Heero pulled Hilde closer and actually snuggled.   
  
  
  
"Oh brother," Quatre rolled his eyes. Duo had made the mistake of introducing Hilde to Heero at   
  
a Christmas party a few years back. Actually, it hadn't been a mistake. Duo had been threatening   
  
his friend that as soon as Heero was ready to handle a chick his equal that Duo had someone in   
  
mind. The mistake had been that no one could have predicted how quickly Heero and Hilde   
  
would get into each other. They were always being found in one romantic moment or another.   
  
No one was terribly surprised when Hilde began showing off her diamond ring.   
  
  
  
"Isn't he cute?!" Hilde giggled, pulling on each end of Heero's un-knotted tie.   
  
  
  
Quatre gave Dorothy a rather alarmed glance then looked at the remaining seat. "Are we going   
  
to stay here?"   
  
  
  
"Of course," Dorothy said coldly, "Let's go find another chair."   
  
  
  
"Don't worry about us," Hilde called after them, "We're perfectly happy sharing here."   
  
  
  
"That's not the problem." Quatre whispered, and no one heard.   
  
  
  
"Ridiculously happy," Dorothy grumbled as between them, she and Quatre hefted a spare chair   
  
from the hallway.   
  
  
  
"Just wait," Quatre grumbled back, "They'll find out."   
  
  
  
"Like when one of them wants pets. Or children!" Dorothy set down her end to open the door.   
  
"Uff." She picked her side back up again.   
  
  
  
"What's wrong with that?" Quatre hissed, dropping the chair on the far side from Heero and   
  
Hilde.   
  
  
  
"I'm sitting here." Dorothy was as good as her word. "You," She waved her hand dismissively,   
  
"Go sit over there. By them."   
  
  
  
Quatre was glad to have some peace and enjoyed the rest of the concert. "I hope they recorded   
  
this, I've missed so much of it. I'll have to buy one." He thought to himself.   
  
  
  
Quatre, "So how do we solve our problem?"   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "You mean we hate each others guts."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "Still want to poison your pizza."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "And I still want to cut off your nuts."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "I phone the marriage guidance . . ."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "I tied the phone line around your neck."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "I'm sick of all of this hatred."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "Oh! That would be the ~arsenic~ making you sick."   
  
  
  
While heading out for a jog about a week after their adventures at the concert, Quatre leaned   
  
into Dorothy's room where she was finishing her make-up. "Do you think it'd look awful if we   
  
lived in two different houses?"   
  
  
  
"Did you just say I look awful?" Dorothy said smartly, and smiled at him--it was more of a sneer.   
  
"Darling child, you know that we can't separate. What would everyone think?"   
  
  
  
"I hate politics."   
  
  
  
"Me too."   
  
  
  
"Well, that's something we have in common." Quatre adjusted his player.   
  
  
  
"Are you still listening to the recording of that concert?" Dorothy asked, curious.   
  
  
  
"Yeah, I really liked it. It's sort of soothing, comforting." Quatre grinned, "I guess that means   
  
they accomplished their goal for music of reconciliation."   
  
  
  
"You should have bought two."   
  
  
  
"Great!" Quatre threw up his hands, tired. "I can't do anything right, can I? We can't just share?"   
  
  
  
"When have you ever shared?" Dorothy said coldly, never turning away from the mirror. Quatre   
  
couldn't see her face.   
  
  
  
"What . . . I . . . ?" Quatre was stunned. He couldn't move for some reason. What did she mean?   
  
  
  
"You want to go to a concert. You want pets. You want kids." Dorothy continued, "When did you   
  
*ever* say that you wanted me . . ."   
  
  
  
He was trembling as he tried to take the disk out of the player. He accidentally hit play.   
  
  
  
" . . . and maybe I'll find out a way to make it back someday. To watch you. To guide you   
  
through the darkest of your days . . ."   
  
  
  
It was cued onto Trowa's solo. Quatre reflexively stopped the music. Giving up he offered the   
  
entire device to Dorothy. "Here." He said. When she didn't move, he set it on the vanity table   
  
and walked away.   
  
  
  
Quatre, "You were about to drive me over the edge of a cliff . . ."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "As I tried to jump out I knocked the stereo on . . ."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "You changed your mind and then slammed on the breaks."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "It's lucky for us we got his greatest hits."   
  
  
  
Dorothy waited until she could hear the front door close behind Quatre. He seldom went jogging-  
  
-preferring to ride one of the horses or simply go on long walks. But in the past few months, he   
  
used every excuse to leave the house. She wondered in passing if he was eating well enough.   
  
She wondered how his health was doing. Aside from their social obligations and chance meetings   
  
in the large house, she couldn't remember much about his present interests. Besides the sudden   
  
jogging . . . and his fascination with Trowa's song.   
  
  
  
She touched the play button and listened a moment.   
  
  
  
" . . . if a greater weight shall fall, it'll fall upon us all. I hope there's someone out there who   
  
could bring me back to you."   
  
  
  
"Trowa can be such a romantic," she smiled to herself in the mirror. A little startled to see tears   
  
in her eyes.   
  
  
  
(you stopped us from killing each other   
  
you'll never know it but you saved our lives)   
  
  
  
Dorothy picked up the receiver on her antique telephone and twirled the cord around one finger   
  
while she listened to the dial tone--hesitating in that moment and wondering who she was going   
  
to call. Then she let the phone ring until it triggered an answering machine.   
  
  
  
" *say something* Right, you've reached Trowa Barton. I'm not in now, so . . . *just tell them to   
  
leave a message already , Trowa* . . . Do you want to do this for me, Cathy?" Dorothy listened   
  
to Trowa's rare musical laugh as it was recorded on the message. "Yeah, leave a message. I'll   
  
get back to you. *you need to do that one again* Not with you standing right here . . ." *beep*   
  
  
  
"Trowa, hi, it's Dorothy. I didn't have a chance to tell you the other day, but Quatre and I really   
  
enjoyed your concert. Thanks."   
  
  
  
She set the receiver down and looked at it for a long minute. Then she picked it up again. She   
  
had another call to make. "Hello, is this the shelter? I was wondering if you had any kittens . . ."   
  
  
  
Something mutual was triggering a renewed affection between them. Quatre returned from his   
  
jogging covered in sweat, his eyes were sore and red. He passed Dorothy in the hallway, both   
  
avoiding the other's eyes. His heart began to pound again.   
  
  
  
"Wait." He said, feeling his face turn very red and hoping she didn't notice. Wondering how she   
  
would react.   
  
  
  
"What?" She said in a little voice, standing straight and keeping her head at a regal angle.   
  
However, without her usual arrogance.   
  
  
  
"I . . . " He took two steps toward her. "Dorothy, I . . . " He couldn't remember what he had   
  
wanted to say. What did he want? "I want to make you happy."   
  
  
  
Her eyes sparkled with sorrowful gratitude. "You smell, darling."   
  
  
  
"I . . ." Quatre stammered, taken back.   
  
  
  
She took his shirt in both hands and pulled herself closer, "In fact," she whispered near his ear,   
  
"I *love* the way you smell . . ." Understanding, Quatre mirrored her coy grin.   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "Now our war is over."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "I crossed the edge to break your neck."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "I owe my life to his new @#%$ cat."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "Delilah stopped me hating you and wishing you dead."   
  
  
  
Trowa nearly dropped the phone. "You have a what?" He repeated.   
  
  
  
"A cat, Dorothy got me the most darling cat."   
  
  
  
"You mean 'car', right?" Trowa tried again, puzzled.   
  
  
  
"No, cat. C-A-T." Quatre laughed, he could hardly believe it himself.   
  
  
  
"What happened to the no-pets rule? I thought that Dorothy had put the law down on that one .   
  
. ." Trowa's voice was still doubtful.   
  
  
  
"She wants to wait just a while longer before trying to have kids, so she said I could have the cat   
  
now. She picked Delilah out for me actually."   
  
  
  
"Delilah?" Trowa repeated, then said stunned, "Kids??"   
  
  
  
"Are you having hearing problems?" Quatre was very amused, "We're going to wait until Dorothy   
  
finishes her obligation teaching criminal psychology at the local colleges. So until next summer   
  
we're going to play parents to our new kitten. I wanted to get a few more cats--two big brothers   
  
I was going to call Godzilla and King Kong . . ."   
  
  
  
"Duo should have never shown you those movies," Trowa groaned. "Dorothy did draw a line   
  
didn't she?"   
  
  
  
"Sort of." Quatre said sheepishly, "If I want a half-dozen kids--I only get one cat."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "Oh, I used to call you Satan."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "I called you Cruella DeVil."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "But now you call me your Delilah."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "But now I'm not your Lucifer."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "And I am just a pussy cat."   
  
  
  
"Are you here?" Dorothy called down the hallway. She listened a moment and then walked   
  
toward the library. If Quatre had his nose in a book, he might never hear her. "Quatre, love?"   
  
She felt a little bizarre being affectionate with her husband again. But there was something so   
  
familiar about him, something that instantly endeared him to her as much as it could instantly   
  
frustrate her.   
  
  
  
She found him in his favorite chair, the book long neglected on the table next to him. Tiny Delilah   
  
was curled in his lap. The kitten yawned and blinked at Dorothy.   
  
  
  
"Shoo." Dorothy whispered, motioning the kitten away. She smiled fondly at Quatre's peaceful   
  
expression. She found the stereo and started the music from the concert that Hilde and Heero   
  
had found so inspiring. A moment later she was annoyed, "Why doesn't he wake up already?"   
  
She pouted.   
  
  
  
A moment later, she was suddenly inspired. Bracing her arms on either side of the chair, Dorothy   
  
leaned in and breathed on his mouth. Watching his closed eyes flutter then stop--still closed.   
  
Putting her knee up on one side of his lap, Dorothy almost imagined that she was a cat herself.   
  
She kissed him awake. Quatre's eyes were crossed over his nose, sleepy and trying to focus.   
  
Dorothy purred.   
  
  
  
They shared a laugh. Quatre pulled her closer, whispering promises along with the lyrics of the   
  
song, "run away with my heart, run away with my hope, run away with my love . . ."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "Just a word of warning now . . ."   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "Just in case we ever get tired of his voice . . ."   
  
  
  
Quatre, "I know the path to get Godzilla, King Kong . . . "   
  
  
  
Dorothy, "And I know an atom bomb that's going for the sun."   
  
  
  
the end.   
  
  
  
". . . and during this quiet hour   
  
my life and love might still go on   
  
in your heart and your mind   
  
I'll stay with you for all of time . . . " 


End file.
